


Soliloquy

by oceansinmychest



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:31:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9482891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: The year is 1781. Years of betrayal and deceit have forged Haytham Kenway into the steel sharp man he is today, but that same steel succumbs to rust. Alone, Haytham reflects with his death just around the corner.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Another Haytham drabble from my roleplaying blog. I always find it fun to tinker around with different POVs, especially second person. A bit of a challenge, but fun all the same.

You perch on top of a church as though you belong there. This is not true. You climb your way to the top, desperate to take in New York when you’re old and grey in 1781. You hold onto the steeple, watching hungry, lonely soldiers march onward. For a moment, you’re on top of the world. New York is beginning to build herself up, nowhere near the metropolis that you won’t live to see. Rather than standing on the tips of your toes for an eagle’s view, you sit hunched as your father did in Havana. In Kingston. In Nassau. It feels familiar to you though this memories are not yours.

Winter is a cruel mistress that coaxes out your breath in a small wisp of smoke. You fill Jack Frost nip at your fingers and you curse, inwardly, at your ineptitude when it comes to investing in a good pair of leather gloves. Your body’s a cage full of creaks and hidden pains; it’s a map with no treasure, only dangerous paths and scars that you’ve forgotten the story to.

In the distance, you spy the port, your eyes sharper than a hawk’s. You’ve been blessed to make it this far. There’s fire everywhere and you’re (not) to blame. This place looks like Hell. It’s not the peace you imagined when you established the Colonial Rite. A sigh tears open your mouth that’s spread so many lies.You look down, but it nearly gives you vertigo. This is where you belong – high in the sky, trying to touch God, but falling short in His image.

At this time of the year, you wonder how Cuba would feel. How it must feel to be in the North, spying the Northern Lights once last time. You wonder about everyone you lost along the way. The woman you love is dead and you didn’t dare to find her; it eats away at you only now that you know. You rescued your sister, but you lost touch with her; it doesn’t consume you. You forget about the Assassin-turned-Templar; it clings to the back of your mind like a ghost. You might as well have left Shay to die. You think about your son and the hate in his eyes is enough to cut you, but you’re filled with your own hate that has rotted you from the inside out. There’s more, but somehow, you forget it all. Your book does not.

Only when you’re alone, you’re allowed to miss all the things you’ve lost. Your father. Your mother. Reginald. Your men. Your only love. Your confidant. Your this and that which will not matter come tomorrow, because tomorrow: you will die. So, you sit up top and reflect on the glory you life once reaped and he trail of ruin you created in your wake. You sit on the wooden plank on the top of this haunted church, your back pressed against a small window. Your leg dangles over the edge like your life.

Tonight, you will leave this place and close the final chapter to your story. You will write in your journal and explain why you did the things you did. You wanted a legacy; you get a legacy. You hope your son will find it. You watch the starry night sky even though this bitter, savage air assaults your lungs. You’re not punishing yourself; everything you did was right at the time. Your eyes close for a moment, basking in the glow of your solitude. You were never one for saying good bye.


End file.
